Memory and Desire
by MWMontagu1939
Summary: Told through the multiple perspectives of nearly every character in Path of Radiance, the Greil Mercenaries' odyssey through the Mad King's War ventures into man's darkest desires, forcing characters to confront conflicting desires, ambivalent hopes, and the descent into modernity.
1. Preamble

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters in _Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance._ All rights are reserved to _Nintendo_ and _Intelligent Systems_.

Rated 'T' for some language and some violence, but some later chapters will be rated 'M'.

**Author's Note:** The content of this story is not a word-by-word transcript of the actual game. Conversations, character developments, and events are altered to fit a more novelized narrative with merit and depth.

Thank you BFoS, hannahbbug3, and my sister for editing this.

* * *

**MEMORY AND DESIRE **

_A Tale of War in One Year_

PER ME SI VA NE LA CITTÀ DOLENTE,

PER ME SI VA NE L'ETTERNO DOLORE,

PER ME SI VA TRA LA PERDUTA GENTE.

GIUSTIZIA MOSSE IL MIO ALTO FATTORE;

FECEMI LA DIVINA PODESTATE,

LA SOMMA SAPÏENZA E 'L PRIMO AMORE.

DINANZI A ME NON FUOR COSE CREATE

SE NON ETTERNE, E IO ETTERNO DURO.

LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH'INTRATE'.

Dante. _Inferno. _(III, 1-9)

* * *

What a wild beast is uncollected man!

The thing that we call Honour, bears us all

Headlong unto sin, and yet it self is nothing.

Beaumont and Fletcher. _The Maid's Tragedy._

* * *

When I heard this,

I fled in exile from the land of Corinth, using

stars to measure out a path that would ensure

that I stayed far from there in future, somewhere I

should never see these evil oracles' reproaches

be fulfilled.

Sophocles. _King Oidipous_. (793-798)

* * *

_**Preamble: A Never Writer to an Ever Reader**_

Headline of Editor's Letter to Shakespeare's _Troilus and Cressida _

* * *

_[A spotlight turns on from the projection room and shines through an empty auditorium; specks of dust swirl in its ray. A circle of white light, small yet whole, just big enough to fit a person, forms on black velvet curtains. After a short period, they part, the spotlight enlarging as they move, its pristine shape splitting, becoming more and more dispersed and unrecognizable. A stage hidden in darkness is pulled into existence, barely perceptible in the scattered light. On the right upper stage, a spiral staircase is shown going pass the ceiling, its metal railings tarnished, and at the center of the lower stage, a tall stool stands. The background is shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. Footsteps can be heard, growing louder and louder, and Anna descends from the stairs. Wearing an unusually bright white robe, she holds a glass of red wine in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. Her red hair loose runs down to her thighs, and noiselessly, walks towards the lower stage, with the cigarette raised high, and stands at the center, right next to the stool.] _

_Anna. (After a small period of standing with her face showing no emotion, she suddenly grins, selfishly) _Black curtains made of soft velvet drape endlessly like two seas, flowing from opposite sides under a starless perpetual night and implode on collision.

From whence they came is where all cycles of Life is concocted from sand and wheeled and sowed into the seams. From whence the chasm the curtains formed is where gravity reached its limit and gives way to wholeness; a speck, a whole of an atom, invisible to my eye that crumples and breaks, splitting in pairs of two, down into the crack where histories of memories and desires are created: reality is realized.

Bye to bygone, generating past empires from Death's grasp, embedded deep in layers of sand on top of bedrock, antiquity wakes yet again to foreign lands and flows back unhesitatingly into the stream, where the wheel slowly cranks and creaks it to another generation, and another, and another; back to death, where death is nothing more than sleep, and an awakening is bound to happen yet again. At finis: no water in life's stream to flow properly but plenty of it in fantasy. All hope of progression and knowledge are lost; the waves are now diminished to a straight line and the last heart beats with a whimper.

An end is unreachable, an endless desert of mocking horizons. A ball within another ball with smooth curves has the point of infinity as its mouth and an imaginary egress at the bottom, where the end of stories rot back to dust; crystallization into golden sand, and we return to the beginning with a blink, trapped in the seams.

Time is selfish. Stark mad with unblinking eyes, his bald head forever bent, he overlooks the space that Life takes, naked and alone in the universe with white wings soiled, torn, and crippled, giving no source of warmth to him in the universe's crust of rolling plains of black velvet; no comments to say, for he does not know words and thinks with a blank mind. His white beard at his feet, he holds his hourglass, shattered to pieces, close to his gut as if freezing to death, afraid that dropping them he would never find them in the dark, and his scythe, dull from the years of harvesting histories from the seams, is tucked safely underneath his arm.

No work and no play makes Time have more time to gaze blankly at nothing while his work piles up.

Then the fall, where the curtains fall and the cosmos cracks and order topples over like dominos into a black hole. First Man, then Nature, and finally Time, Space, and God lumped together.

Alas, we return to peace. Over there, at the end of the tunnel, comes the white dot; a mournful sigh from an unknown source of an unknown place increasing as it expands and expands, breaking its body, and reaching the end, comes God, and Space, and Time all rejuvenated and awe struck and ready to work in a land where two seas of rolling black velvet, coming from opposite directions, collide and implode a chasm, and a spotlight, as bright as the Sun, sitting hearteningly on the horizon, flicking infinite pastel shades of blue, yellow, and red in the empty sky.

Space is the designer of the set, creating worlds with adroit hands on the land of velvet nearest to the spotlight; once finished, it throws its artwork down into the chasm. God sacrificed itself to amalgamate with Space's creations, throwing itself in the abyss to breed Life from its decomposing body, disintegrating and melting little by little into the vacuum, into the matter, and into the air of which it surrounds and thrives on the stage for the story and the actors to unfold. Awakening, God abandoned supreme divinity, and dying over and over again, splitting into multiple fragments of itself, its deity lives through Life's mosaic. Wholeness can never be reached again, and Life, born from a corpse of perfect caliber, divides again and again with polarity in its head and divinity in its veins. Nature and Man: the universe's greatest adversaries.

Meanwhile, while Space continues creating, while God continues decaying, while Life continues dividing, Time reaps the histories from the seams with a quick swish of his scythe on one hand and checks his punctuality from his hourglass on the other. A brilliant white, his wings beat over the landscape with force, throwing his harvest down into the abyss to dissolve and blend with Space's creations and Nature's features and Man's intelligence.

Everything is in order, but Time begins to feel the burdens of repetition. Repetition of reaping stories sharing the same features, the same outcomes, and the same consequences.

Nothing is preconceived. It does not exist. But the outcome of one's story is listed in the grains where a graph, made in great, meticulous detail, is shown with titles and percentages of a wide range of possibilities. And Time does know this graph, for Time is Man. Beyond Man. The first Man, yet having nothing to do with the creation of his own species, is Man's failed prototype. Carrying the burden of the truth, he strains his eyes from the never-ending parade of stories, filled with tragedies and disasters, few with happy endings but not enough to gain his confidence back.

Histories in a handful of golden sand. Ripping the velvet and digging deep within, Time pulls it out. On his palm, grains of stories slide through his fingers, hissing the struggles of Man's cries and Nature's whispers. Man's triumphs and Nature's floundering. Man's blasphemy and Nature's commitment. Man's...

Born after God and Space.

He looks at the sand, running past his fingers, and meticulously, calculates the result. He knows which outcome will most likely happen. He knows the end. He knows that he can't do anything about it.

All alone.

God died before Time could know him, and Space is invisible, focusing on its craft and having no time to talk.

All alone. Confined.

For all eternity. Away from the spotlight and deep into the arctic of darkness, far away from that chasm, where the paragon of infinite knowledge hides in its size, he realizes that the chasm is always close by.

Becoming careless, Time broke his hourglass, slicing his skin.

Tower of Babel, climbing to the heavens from the bowels of ignorance, imaginary in thy naked eye, but real in thy mind, your desire of wholeness is in vain. Round and round your circular structure goes, no point for conclusion, only forlorn hope of reaching the Holy Grail of supreme consciousness that's always been there, before Man, before the universe, before God. Failing to realize that ignorance is trailing behind.

Time tumbled head first into the velvet, injuring his wings.

The spotlight starts to fade away, gradually. As Man congeals, coming closer and closer to wholeness, its pastel primal colors fades, darker and darker, until it becomes nothing more than sheer blackness.

His scythe becomes so dull that harvesting becomes impossible.

Now we return to the beginning, where Time is at his bovine state. A gaping mouth where soundlessness flows flow and eyes of pearls gaze, he survives but kills his thoughts: himself. Now, he is Man. His smashed pieces of his hourglass, his only friend, held close to him; pieces of broken glass jabbing him, blood running down his sides. His wings tattered, scythe, dull and chipped, under his arm, Time is alone and miserable in a wasteland where no light can reach him. Space and God never existed to him. Man died, the last one in the mountains, where he saw a star dying and said his final words in Latin. But his brothers and sisters did not know, for they have lost all sense of being and became like all the others: whole.

And so, Time gazed with blind eyes and breathed soundlessly, and as the scene close, his final thought, before being a paralyzed fool, was that the only supreme being was he: God.

But this has all been a dirty lie.

Time is not Time. This Time's job is not the real Time's job. This Time is Time's impostor.

Never kept anything in order. Never read a single thing about Time. Never heard of the truth.

This man never did anything I just told you just now. This man never felt human compassion nor human emotions. This man never had familial ties and rejected Life and hid in his basement.

Who is he then?

A man who took the identity of Time.

The fall. And we're back at square one.

Now the actors: Man._ (Laughs)._ Of the lesser kind. Not those whose stories of going to the store buying basic necessities, continuing their boring day with uneventful phenomenons, burning through boring nights with no original thoughts or ideas shaping into interesting dreams. No, I'm talking about the ones born with a touch a grace. The ones where all the ingredients are right, where all the stars and the planets align: character of infinite character.

Born with a preset of infinite possibilities, these are actors that roam around the set, clueless to the consequences of their actions, graphed above in a chart where the crowd can see. A mind and a body worth having, for when caught in Life's vortex, devouring civilization and throwing it back torn into pieces, they do not wither away in their own tears, but through reproof, bloom yet again in Spring's evoking rain. Star-crossed with actions, their inner potential awakens, for anyone can be a character, but the only ones that are remembered are from the circumstances of their surroundings.

_(She now holds the hand with glass of red wine upwards, leveling it with the cigarette). _In this hand is the blood of Man. _(She brings it down and drinks the whole thing)_ In this hand is the Sin of Man. _(She brings the unlit cigarette down and pretends to smoke it, pretending to puff clouds of smoke out of her mouth. She places the empty glass on the stool and levels her hand with the cigarette down to her waist.) _With these, I'm now able to show you Man's dark mind. But be forewarned, don't expect a full revelation at first glance. Beneath the icy, dark sea is layer of underwater mountain ranges, repressed and piercing back up, unbeknownst to the eye.

_(Lets out a long sigh and laughs)_ Now with that out of the way, I present you your feature presentation! Your night's entertainment! Your late night reading!

All of you, crowded here tonight, are about to hear, to see, to read a tale of a teen's quest for lustful revenge and self-discovery. Of a girl's self-negligence. Of a teen's coming-of-age. Of a father's sinful past. Of a woman's melancholia. Of a princess' naivety. Of a king's madness. Of a man's nonexistence...

_[On the word 'nonexistence,' The One Behind The Curtains enters at the left upper stage, hiding in the shadows, invisible to the audience; small smoke clouds rise out of the shadows and twirl malevolently in the fainted light, seeping out of the dark corner.]_

...Of...

_The One. (In a loud and authoritative voice; a voice that is indiscernible from a man or a woman's voice) _You don't want to describe the whole thing, Anna. You might overwhelm the audience.

_Anna. (Doesn't turn around to look at the One and keeps her attention in front of her)_ I can't help it. Sometimes I get excited and ramble on endlessly about things that...

_The One._ ...have no meaning?

_Anna._ To you, yes. But these people here want a story with meaning. So, I'm giving them just that.

_The One. (Laughs snobbishly and bestially at her remark. The One starts walking slowly out of the shadows and over to Anna. In the faint light, The One is wearing a baggy, black tuxedo suit and has its face blurred. Continues talking while walking over to Anne) _You honestly think that these people give a shit about meaning? Filled with moralities, merits, and ideas? Bah! _(spits out a cloud of smoke)_ Leave that for the English majors. Here, (with its free hand, makes a rapid gesture to the empty auditorium) they want the good stuff. The stuff that sells. The stuff that gives them feelings...

_Anna. _...empty feelings...

_The One. _...feelings in which they gain personal satisfaction. Gives them hope...

_Anna._ ...false hope...

_The One._ ...hope of reading something to their liking. Something simple, fun, exciting, sensual...

_Anna._ ...pornography...

_The One._ ...now, Anna. _(standing right next to her)_ Don't be so negative. I'm only describing what the average joe wants.

_Anna. _What do they want?

_The One._ Oh, you know: one-shots, inserts, , inserts with , one-shots with both inserts and , homosexual romances, heterosexual romances, homosexual insert fantasy, contemporary comedies, melodramas, epics, melodramatic epics, epic melodrama, epic melodrama romance with insert and with homosexual and heterosexual overtones with comical situations...oh, but do I really need to go on? You know as much as I do.

_Anna._ And that's the problem.

_The One. _Problem? Problem that I know about as much as you do?

_Anna. (rolls her eyes)_ Not that but generic stories bereaved of worth.

_The One. _That so?

_Anna._ Stories with thought-provoking meanings and themes; ambiguity exercising the mind, that makes the reader say, 'Wow! Such talent! Such intelligence! After putting up with the story's difficulty, and reading it over and over again, I was able to figure it out!" That's gone. I've searched and searched from world to world, past to past, future to future, looking for these tales with merit, but failed to find a substantial amount.

_The One. _I'm pretty sure that there's some on text.

_Anna._ Text? Of course! Why wouldn't there be any? You can literally fill mountains with stories on text rich with words and ideas. What I'm talking about is virtual text.

_The One. (trying not to laugh)_ Really?

_Anna. (affirmatively)_ Really.

_The One. (snorts offensively, fuming clouds of smoke) _Your naivety amuses me, Anna, but quite painful to wrap around. Do you expect that these _(points to the audience)_...people...actually care about stories with ideas and messages? Contrariwise, they are running away from them.

_Anna. (sighs, and in a low voice)_ I don't want to believe it, but you are right.

_The One. (confidently)_ Am I always?

_Anna_. But _(she walks up to the tip of the lower stage) _if there is one story out there, one story that challenges all other stories in this empty universe, let it exist.

During my journey through countless imaginary lands and worlds, I have found only a handful of tales that were perfect, others close with ingredients left out.

But let there be one that breaks convention, that challenges the reader, the viewer, the voyeur into breaking their minds, questioning the relation between virtual and text.

Generic genres, cast thee into oblivion, and let this one rise. Rise to bring others out of the dark shadows from the depths of the mind, and bring them a wave that carries the colorful banner of the New, demanding Old's death and demise. If not, let it be the Wandering Jew, criticized and amusing, forever drifting from land to land; its death is when power dies.

My mind can't bear it. Ignoring the facts gashes my soul. Such reputation can't be washed away. A deep cut on the flesh, where the scar forms and burdens the brutal name.

Grammar.

The proper usage should be an act of indulgence.

Your and you're.

Misery! What a heart-stabbing mistake.

Anne Frank as a hedgehog.

My brain cells deplete at a mile per second, and I ask myself, how can this level of stupidity exist?

Medieval heroes in Japanese-like high schools. Incestuous misrepresentation. Horrible lyrics. Plagiarism. Impious pornography. Pitiful fantasies. Unguided criticism. A doglike mind of both likeness and ideas.

Horror! Horror! This is where we ended up. Grab yourself a bottle, drink to this loss; I, too, will join you, though I can never drink while on duty.

_The One._ ...are you done?

_Anna._ ...

_The One._ You know what I think? I think that your whole ramble on wanting the greatest fanfiction made, or what you call, 'creative response,' is nothing but hot air. What do you gain by shaking your fist at everything that is and will be? Pretentious! You sound like a god damn hipster! You came down those stairs as if wearing a garish plaid shirt, fishing overalls, army boots, and 3-D glasses. Nothing but a homeless trickster. I've been standing in the shadows since I can remember and saw you come down those stairs and I heard your entire speech from beginning to end. Pretentious! Filled with precautions! There's no precaution in this. Everyone knows what they want on here or elsewhere. It's everything from the size of the ant to the size of the universe, a red dot on a white sweater: it cannot be missed. They come and go, pay in time, and you should give them what they want: escapism. The pleasure and satisfaction they receive is a drug of letting them forget _(takes a long pause, sucking its cigarette, letting out another large cloud of smoke)_ beyond this place: the cruel ways of Man. They're in it for the kick, and if you present them with this nonsense, they will leave you and tell their friends that you and your story...

_Anna. (correcting him)_...not mine. His.

_The One._ Whatever. You and 'his' story, will be labeled as junk, a hipster trying to become a Joycean or Wellesian figure trying to make 'The Greatest Story Ever.'

_Anna. (expressing heavenly patience)_ So you think that by writing senseless yaoi, that he and I will become acceptable?

_The One. _Thought, not write. There's a difference. This is not real _(points to the stage)._

_Anna. (points beyond the room)_ And that is?

_The One._ Nothing means everything, Anna; you should know that. Hyperreality, virtual reality, and regular reality, dimensions upon dimensions, are all the same. They express nothing: all meaningless. Everything is mechanical and derivative, coming from one source. We are all the same.

_Anna. (disturbed and somewhat annoyed, confusedly) _Yes and no.

_The One. _Yes and yes and yes. All come from the same point; therefore, originality is dead, and most importantly, that I am right...yet again.

_Anna. (abruptly)_ But the story...

_The One. (amused)_ And?

_Anna._ Um...

_The One._ Go on.

_Anna. (calmly)_ The story is his idea. Not yours.

_The One._ _(more amused)_ Is that so? Elaborate.

_Anna._ He came up with the idea that the universe comes from one point, and because of it, we're all the same; you just repeated it. That's the rule. A fact. We're here, standing face to face, talking and exchanging words. We were meant to meet each other. We were meant to have this conversation. We were born from his mind but he, too, was born from another, and that person from another, and that person from another. Put a mirror in front of another mirror, and tell me, what do you get?

_The One. (lets out another cloud of smoke, quickly) _The same thing.

_Anna. (stern but calm to the One but doesn't look at it; she appears to look around it) _That was a rhetorical question. What do you get? The same story being told over and over again, but the differentiation is the shadow between the image. Original concept doesn't exist. Wholeness doesn't exist. But the way it is told can be original.

_(Turns to the audience)_ Ladies and gentlemen, you believe everything that comes out of my mouth to be my own independent thoughts, but instead, I'm just repeating what has been said, oh, let's say, thousands of years ago. He, with a stroke of his pen, a flick of the wrist, is the one behind it all. _(This phrase offends the One) _My monologue: thought up. This stage: thought up. The two of us: thought up. Though I can say whatever comes into mind, it will fit the context of the frame in one shape or form. The author, the playwright, the director, has orchestrated everything that you're about to read and see. The author has foreseen all the events that are about to be unfold.

We and the actors take up matter to perform a universal and never-ending tale that still invigorates the mind to anyone who passes by and decides to stay. As for I, I'm to guide you. I am Charon, and this room is the vessel to sail across a sea of sorrow. But I have permission to stray and we'll delve to the deep, reaching the bottom, digging into the soggy ground, and pilfering Life's rich treasures.

I am not Charon, and this stage and I are going to metamorphose from water to land, from air to fire, and from flat to dynamic; changing constantly to the purposes of clowns, with the story trudging to its final act, I will appear and reappear in forms of objects blind to both you and the actors and myself from time to time.

Finally, I am Sibyl. Born from the author's head, I come full force, armored with white to protect myself from the horrors that soils the soul. In between the seconds, I wander from world to world, fantasy and reality, seeking knowledge and consuming it; there, the parables of origin lie, and I see the connections. Alas, by the help of my benefactor, I know the end...

_(Pause, then turns to the One) _Would you like to say something? After all, you have a purpose too.

_The One. (annoyed by Anna's prelude and innocent remark)_ A pleasant thought._ (turns to audience)_ Ladies and gentlemen, if I may say so, you're in for a sour treat...

_Anna._ ...a sweet one...

_The One._ ...a story like this doesn't come around often, and just a few minutes ago, I wasn't informed about the story until Anna walked down the stairs and started...

_Anna._ ...started what?

_The One._ ...I'm not one who likes repeating myself. Hell, I can't even remember how many times we...

_Anna._ ...mostly me...

_The One. _...repeated the message and our eccentricities over and over again...

_Anna._ ...But back to the story...

_The One_. ...well, it's about...

_Anna. _...about?

_The One. (sarcastic)_ ...well, sorry if I'm not artsy, speaking in rhymes and metaphors, but it's about war...

_Anna. _...and life...

_The One._ ..and hate..

_Anna._ ..and love..

_The One._ ...and sins...

_Anna. _...and virtues...

_The One._ _(exacerbated)_ ...and how about letting me speak for myself?

_Anna._ I was only helping.

_The One. (back to the audience)_ Personally, I don't care for stories like these. Young, ambitious pseudo-writers being infatuated by ideas nobody else finds interesting except for themselves. No, I don't want you to think that we, you and I, are preconceived, as if we were programmed like computers, having all the sources of the world in our mind yet we can't decide on our own decisions. That's a lot of shit right there. Certain actions result in certain consequences. Don't think that you and I are nothing but puppets.

Let's get down to it. I don't know what's going to happen at the end. Hell, I don't know what the story is even about. I was minding my own business, when I took a wrong turn and ended up here. But if I did know, you'd think I'll be selfish enough to hold it back greedily, so that only I, and I alone, would know the secret to the story, or any other story out there? No. All this metaphorical crap and symbolism is nothing but to hide both Anna and the _(mockingly)_ 'the one behind it all's' incompetence as storytellers.

Now, I'm not insulting Anna. She did the best that she could describing this pretentious junk, making it seem like a masterpiece. But the author doesn't have my sympathy. He's an idiot. Do you think that anyone wants to write serious stories here? Go write yourself a novel. Go somewhere else.

You think that he can act like a god and decide the fate of his subjects? Blasphemy! All of us here can decide our own futures. There's no graph in the sky that lists all our outcomes. We are not star-crossed to fate. Fate never even existed. It was coined just for the purpose of having control over us. This _(points behind) _is of the highest offense, and what I have standing beside me is a messenger of a false prophet.

Wholeness can be achieved. What I was trying to say earlier is that everything comes from unity but can fall back into place if we know our place.

_Anna. (ignoring the One's tirade) _Thank you so much. You have accomplished your role in this production.

_The One. _If there was any.

_Anna._ We have delayed the reader far too long, and I see that some have left the room. But no matter: I shall be brief.

_[The One, seeing it has no purpose left, walks back to the shadows it first came from. Before being swallowed by it, The One turns to the projection room and makes a rapid gesture. The One enters into the shadows, never to return. With it gone, Anna walks to the upper stage where the background, shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, is slowly being lighted from an unknown source. A gigantic blue door, as if a front door to a castle, slowly emerges, as if being pulled out from the abyss. It stands to the point where it almost surpasses the ceiling, and written on the top are giant words that read: OUTREALM GATES. Anna stands by the door, which slowly opens, automatically, without making any sound.]_

_Anna._ So now ends the overture and into the real action. We begin at the end. Not the end of the story, but end of a four period cycle that marks where civilization stands. We now sail into the mind of our first character, but you won't know it. You will wake up when I say so and there you will become someone else, encompassing yourself with foreign thoughts and unruly manners. At the end of the journey, we will return back to ourselves and reflect. Well, reflect without spooning you like a baby.

But enough art, forwards into the matter. Do not stray far, for you don't want to get stuck to the wet ground or drift into the current. I'll guide you through the meshes but try to remain safe.

Without further ado, we begin...

_[She enters into the door, like a vacuum sucking away the sound, the auditorium fills with a dead silence, and all the lights flicker off.] _


	2. P: Ike

**_Prologue: Spring was the Only Season._**

Ovid. _Metamorphoses_. (I.107)

* * *

**IKE**

When I woke up I felt the heat of Spring on my body. The scent of the open field strong and the sun high, I gazed blankly at the sky. The pounding in the back of my head beat with force.

I heard Mist humming Mother's melody nearby. I turn my head, the white flowers brushing against my face, and saw her sitting on the grass, bending over and ripping flowers from their roots. I lay at the heart of the field, and Mist was over at the lake's shore. The sun's rays beamed into the lake, making it sparkle with light. I sat up and turned towards the lake, looking at Mist.

"So, you finally woke up," someone said from behind. I turn to see Father staring down at me, holding his practice sword upward and resting on his shoulder. "Hope the blow didn't injure you."

"No, it didn't," I responded. The pounding still beat.

"Ike, you're awake!" yelled Mist. She got up and ran towards us. "What Father did to you was unacceptable. I told him myself!"

"Striking the enemy while distracted wasn't a bad idea; however, Ike, your poor execution made you vulnerable."

"Still," said Mist, holding the ripped flowers firmly against her waist, "did you have to hit him that hard? Poor Ike was out for nearly an hour! I know that the two of you were just practicing, but I wish you weren't so hard on him."

"If Ike still wants to become part of the mercenary group, he needs the discipline. Otherwise, he'll be incompetent and end up getting himself killed on the battlefield."

I stood up. "Don't worry, I don't mind if you're tough on me. I can take it."

Father smirked. "That's good to hear, son. Maybe tomorrow, after Titania and her group come back from their mission, Boyd might be available to spar with you."

Mist walked slowly back to the lake, looking down at every step she took. Her arms crossed, the flowers she held poked out from under her shoulder, swinging left to right.

"I've been meaning to tell you something," I said to Father with my eyes still on Mist, "I'm prepared."

A pause followed. Father asked cautiously, "Prepared for what?"

"To go on a mission." I turned around to look Father in the eye. His face stiffened. Mist began humming Mother's tune again.

He gave me a serious look. The pounding in the back of my head increased. We stood staring at each other for a while. I felt the heat burn my skin, heard the sound of Father's quiet breathing, and saw Father's gaze and face grew rigid.

He let out a sigh and turned his back to me, walking a few steps forward and tapping his shoulder with his sword. "Ike, I'll be honest: you have been improving these past few months, but I really think that you still need more time to improve your swordplay."

I didn't react, budge, or twitch. My eyes locked on his dirty yellow cape and the only thing occupying my mind was the sound of the pounding beating harder.

"Maybe next year you'll be ready, but not now." He turned around and gave me a friendly look, but quickly dashed it to the ground. Lowering his sword, the tip touching the grass, he brushed his hair back quickly, looked at me, and smirked. "I hope you understand, son." He walked towards me and patted my head.

"I'm prepared." I repeated.

He grabbed my hair and forces me to look at him, giving me the serious look again. "Ike, listen to me: you're not. Like I said, you're improving, but you're not ready to fight in a one-on-one battle. You'll get yourself killed." He let go of my hair and turned around, continuing to talk. "The problem with you, Ike, is this: everything you do, when it comes to combat, is a little too sloppy. You know how to swing your sword, but it's always just a bit too slow. When you dodge or react to an attack, you're always just a moment too late. But let me tell you, son," he turns around facing me, "if you continue the hard work, give yourself one more year, and allow your skills to fully mature, you will flourish; if you start throwing yourself into battles this instant, with your skills underdeveloped, you will perish."

The pounding got to its peak. "Why won't you give me a chance and let me prove myself to you that I'm ready?"

Father stared at me. "Stubbornness is another fault of yours. Ever since you could wield a sword, it was all about being a part of this mercenary group – _my_ mercenary group. Training every day of the week, spending hours upon hours of complete devotion to this goal. I'm not saying that you're misusing your time, in fact, I'm elated to see you put this much effort in improving your swordsmanship, but every time we spar together I see the same thing: a lot of power in your blows, not enough deliberation in your tactics.

"I try to give you advice: 'son, try parrying my attacks by holding your sword vertically,' or 'son, if you try to slash me from above, you're vulnerable from the sides,' or my personal favorite, 'son, don't just stand there like a damn tree and dodge!' But you avail a fourth of the advice I've given you. It wasn't until last week where the parade of requests began, asking me again and again: 'I'm prepared,' 'I'm ready,' and 'give me a mission.' And every time you asked, I said, sometimes calmly, other times irritably: 'NO.' Of course, I try to reason with you, explain to you why it's best for you to wait, but your perseverance prevailed. I could give you the greatest and most persuasive argument that could convince anyone in Tellius, but you'll still be firmly devoted to your objective.

"Why? Why so persistent? Trying to follow in your father's footsteps? I admit if that's the reason I'm flattered, but the truth of the matter is that I don't care whether or not you want to be equivalent or better than me; all I want– " He stopped, sighed, and turned his attention to the woods. He fell silent for a while. The sound of nature and Mist's humming filled my ears. I continued to stand there. The only movement was my chest moving up and down whenever I breathed and Father's dirty cape flowing in the breeze.

Father's face did not look serious. He stared towards the forest, his face calm and strong. After another period of silence, he began: "Words. Words have no effect on you. Persuasion, reasoning, or pleading; you're indifferent to all of them. When you're set on a cause, it's like the marriage of two people; devoted to each other through life, 'til death do you part." Father got quiet and muttered: "I guess there's really no way in telling why you want this job."

A pause followed. I still hadn't moved. He turned to look at me again, lifted his sword so it could rest on his shoulder. "Whatever your reasoning is, abstract or concrete, I bet it stems from your desire of wanting the greater good in life."

"To honor you," I said abruptly. The pounding was slowly calming down.

Father smiled. "To honor me? So it's all about looking up to your old man? I knew it." He laughed. He stabbed his sword into the ground and, using his free hand, rubbed his arm. Mist stopped ripping flowers and started skipping rocks into the lake. _Splash, splash, plop!_ She hadn't ceased humming Mother's melody. "One mission. I'll give you one mission to see if you're actually ready. Just don't make me regret making decision."

"Trust me, I won't get myself killed."

"Or prove yourself to be incompetent. If that's the case, you'll be back to trainee status training for another year."

"Ho there!" a voice yelled coming from afar. "What's the holdup?"

The last rock fell with a loud _plop!._ Mist ceased her humming. Her footsteps were faint, but I could hear her walking towards us, sighing: "Oh, Boyd…" Boyd, a small figure far off on the dirt path that leads to the fort was waving his hands in the air and jumping up and down.

Father turned to the dirt path and yelled, "Come over here, Boyd!" Boyd ran towards us, his image getting bigger and bigger. Mist stood beside me. When I turned to look at her, the flowers were not in her hands.

When Boyd reached the heart of the field where Father, Mist and me stood, Father asked: "What's the news?"

Boyd, catching his breath, grinned: "No news. Just this little girl over here never returned from her mission on retrieving the commander and his son." He looked to her still grinning.

Mist didn't say anything. She folded her arms and looked at the ground.

"So," Boyd continued, turning his attention back to Father, "the others got worried and chose me to search for her and see if everything is OK." His eyes fell on me. "What happened to you, Ike? You look like you tripped and fell into a ditch."

"Father knocked the daylights out of him by striking him on the back of his head."

Boyd laughed. "Mist," I hissed, giving her a nasty glare.

"What?" Mist asked innocently.

"Anyways," Father interrupted, "I'm pretty sure everyone here is exhausted – except for you, Boyd." He looks up to see the sun slowly fell towards the lake. "Getting close to supper time. Well, we've done enough training for today. Right, Ike?" He turned to me smiling, waiting for an answer. I didn't reply. Father rubbed his hands awkwardly, looked to the ground, and then moved his gaze back to Boyd and said calmly: "Well, let's all go back to the fort to dine. Boyd, what's Oscar's special for tonight?"

"The same thing it's always been: a surprise."

Father laughed. "Better go now than spend all night here thinking about it." We started walking on the dirt path and headed to the fort. "Ike," started Father, slapping my back and placing his hand on my shoulder. "Since you're starting tomorrow as a new mercenary of the company, I should give you some tips on–"

"Wait!" Mist blurted out. We'd only walked a few steps from the field. She ran all the way to the lakeshore and grabbed the plucked flowers that she left behind. The sun hadn't reached the horizon, but the lake sparkled at a stronger force.

Mist ran back to us. "Mist," Father began, "for a moment there, I thought you forgot it."

"No dad," Mist interrupted. "I have that in my pocket." Father sighed in relief. The pounding in the back of my head ceased.

We continue walking to the fort. I turned to the sparkling lake once more. For a moment, I thought I saw Mother's image when Mist picked up the flowers.


	3. P: Mist

**MIST**

Alongside the path, the apple trees bloomed majestically, standing perpendicular to the ground with branches stretching outwards over the path. Petals fell gently to the ground, white and small; they covered most of the path and filled the forest with a rich, aromatic scent, its scent blowing for many yards through the vagrant air. White flowers blossomed at the base of the trees, their buds drooped. The birds chirped and the bugs buzzed in unanimous tone and the sun's golden rays falling behind showered throughout the forest; the forest glowed with pastoral colors, casting dark shadows at their side, long on the ground. During last winter's harshness, arctic snow covered the land, deprived of lush of warmth of life. Forming icicles on trees, it froze and striped them of their leaves, displaying them to the world _Look! Look how stark you are with disfigured arms, black and dark as the night's sky! O Ashera! How deceptive you are! Creating lifeforms in your mind's eye, monstrous and repulsive, hiding their true nature and _spring came as a survivor; scared away winter and its torments and brought life back to the land.

Father and Ike were up ahead and Boyd and I were trailing behind. His arm around Ike's shoulders, Father, his face close to his, whispered to him about the standards of the mercenary group and gave tips on his mission tomorrow. Ike was not looking at Father, his attention set ahead.

The sun was falling behind us; my shadow, twice my size, strode at my feet. Boyd called my name but I ignored him. He walked near the path's side where the grass and dirt met, where most of the fallen petals accumulated, stepping on them without any consideration, and I walked in the middle, the road bare. I looked at my shadow, double my size, and striding at my feet. Boyd came closer, his breathing and heavy steps grew.

"Mist."

"Hm?" I said, trying to sound like I finally heard him. I kept my attention down at my feet, my hand sliding into my right pocket and keeping the batch of flowers close to my left side. I rubbed the surface with my thumb.

"How do you feel?"

"About?"

"Your brother becoming the newest member in our troupe. He wanted this all his life, right?"

I kept rubbing the surface, rough and rusted under my thumb. "So, you overheard?"

"Well, yeah, I could hear the commander from all the way over here. I'm not deaf you know."

I took my hand out of pocket and looked at him, white petals were on his green hair. "If you must know, I'm happy. Happy that Father finally given Ike the job. He deserves it. I've seen him working twenty-four hours a day perfecting his swordsmanship." _Under the umbrage of the oak tree Ike and Father fought._"But I think the question should go to you Boyd: how do you feel about my brother being in the mercenary group now?"

He became quiet. He scratched his head roughly and then rubbed his arms. "Well," he began, "I guess I'm happy too. But -"

"But you're afraid that Ike will get all the attention?"

"What? No. No. You think that I'm jealous of Ike? No way."

"I don't know. He's beaten you on multiple occasions."

"Please, that was only one time."

"More like a hundred to me."

"You're exaggerating," he said, blushing. He took the white petals out of his messy, dark green hair. "Besides, Ike's not perfect. He can't even beat his own father."

"Or Titania. Did you consider that? Both of them are out of his league. They're professionals. They've been doing their jobs for years."

"Yeah, but when Ike fought Titania that one time, he was able to get a few hits on her, but with your dad: nothing; not one hit. I don't think his sword even brushed him."

I turned my attention away from him, annoyed. Light slowly faded away. The evening sky, a gradation of black transitioning to radiant orange, darkened as the sun slowly descended behind the horizon, taking most of the light that engulfed us in the afternoon and leaving one strong, final golden beam, emitting from the sinking sun behind us; metamorphosing everything that the light touched into gold but darkening the insides of the forest.

I looked at Boyd. He was looking straight ahead. The sun's ray hit him, outlining the back of his head all the way down to his feet; a fine pastoral yellow sketched his face, round and smooth and dirty; preserved and young. Eyes wide and big twinkled vaguely under arched eyebrows, almost hidden by his headband. Sleeves torn, his burly arms, brown from the countless days of training, exposed to the light with sweat glistening and small scars glinting in small, white slashes, its marks scattered starting from his wrists going all the way up to his shoulder. A body muscular and fit and tall withstood the weight of his axe, longer than his arm and weighed about the same as him, and held it in his right hand, its head slightly bigger than his own, resting on his shoulder. White petals continued falling from the trees. Some landed on Boyd's head.

I giggled. He started giggling too, not knowing what I was giggling at. He scratched the behind of his head, the white petals fell off.

We continued walking. Father and Ike stopped talking and walked side by side. Looking straight ahead, they stood tall and confident, not saying a word to each other. Boyd blurted out: "Hey! I have to tell you something that happened on my mission today. It's great."

"Oh," I said, "go ahead."

"Alright, you're going to love this. Well, before we reached the village where the bandits raided, Shinon and Gatrie had been to town south of the fort the other day and they were arguing about fighting_ in the morning. I came from the path, went across the grassy field where the lake was, and went deep into the forest_ _where I heard the dull crashes of Ike and Father's wood training swords colliding. In the forest, rows of thick elm trees broke up to a small stomping ground under a thick canopy of leaves; under the shadow in front of a large oak tree, they fought. _

_Ike stroke from above. Father merely stepped aside. He missed. Ike did the same thing. Same result. Father unleashed a powerful blow that brushed Ike's face. He fell backwards and spun around, his left foot slid making him kneel. He raised his head. There! There! A spark flared in Ike's eyes; a light penetrated through the thick canopy of the elm trees and landed askew across Ike's face, capturing it. _

_Rage and animosity: the primal lust for blood and the desirous passion for death. Father, can you see it? Can you see_ _Ike's behavior and strokes and yells that a fiendish hex rests deep inside _the village, two houses near the entrance were burned down, its frame and supporting beams remained, scorched and black, smoldering in the debris.

Shinon and Gatrie separated from the group to take the enemy from the rear while Titania and I attacked up front, through the entrance where _a mockingbird chirped three notes, two up in harmonic fluidity follow by one step down on a sharp, while_ _a cicada hummed a three shrilling, monotonous note: two short buzz, one long one. An audience high up and oblivious to the engagement beneath them, where father and son_ sneaked past another burnt house and found a bar with smashed windows, its insides hollow and dark with the tavern door swinging steadily in the wind.

I crept up behind the building where I saw a bandit seated on the ground drinking heavily from a stolen bottle of wine, the liquid running _down and down again, Ike tumbled. All the effort and all the time training day in and day out failed him. A gifted swordsman turned wild, Ike charged at Father, like a beast charging at its prey; a prey that pranced and dodged humiliating the predator without boasting. I stood behind a tree watching the pitiful show. Exhausted, Ike knelt. Father stood there emotionless and stern. He took a step back and held his sword diagonally, skyward, and away from his body. Ike burst with adrenaline and launched forward, swinging his sword from underneath his side and bringing it up diagonally to hit Father on his side. Foreseeing this, Father quickly blocked it and I immediately thought _about the time when Ike wanted to touch _what was wrong?_

What was wrong? Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. I've seen the moon and the sun together in the sky many times and I could tell you with complete honesty that _nothing is wrong. What's there to worry about? There's nothing to worry about. Everything_ came to that moment where I decided to take advantage of the opportunity.

I sneaked up to the drunken fool who still drank from the bottle, his face covered in red, and I had my axe stretched out, the sharp point e_ven from the heavens,_ Father told me never to let anyone touch my _Ike struggled to knock Father's sword out of his hand_ but one day I wanted to do it. It was going to be our little secret_ Father shoved him and Ike, from the sudden power from the push, flew backwards a few feet and landed roughly on the ground, kneeling again. Father stood perfectly still, having his sword touching_ the ground, and with a quick jerk, I stabbed the bandit in his ass.

He yelped and dropped the bottle, smashing into pieces, the liquid splashing everywhere, and with a swift motion, I spun around, bringing my axe from beneath my side _found Ike and confronted him and _he said Yes. Let's do it. We went around _the company of our employees they were close, but a mountain emerged and separated them and _Father told me _never to let anyone_ and he fell like a bag of_ pathos. I emerged from my hiding spot and_ _called out: Father! Ike! Father turned around, saw me, and smiled. Ike remained kneeling. All the tension surrounding them _into my room,_ closed the door_ and I laughed my ass off. Then, I saw Titania who_ moved a couple of steps towards me. Ike_, _a fallen soldier, head down, sword down, knelt on the dirt, in a last gasp, leaped in the air, sword high above him, yelling; eyes full of fury. _

_Father sensed this behind him and dodged it. Ike smashed his sword into the ground and Father stroke Ike from behind his head with_ her axe, covered in the blood of her enemies, and with another swoop killed another bandit, _barging into the door before Ike could touch it. I had it held out in front of me. Father backhanded him,_ _passed out and instantly fell, face first. You Fool. _You damn fool! I knew you couldn't keep your hands off of it!_ He grabbed his hair violently_ the leader was at the town hall. Half of it demolished, half of it _slapped across the face. _I cried saying _Father, did you have to hit him that hard? He looked at me. He brushed his hair with one hand and said to me_ If I ever see you letting him _giving me his and Ike's sword_ I'll make sure you won't forget it. _He raised his hand and_ the leader didn't even put up a fight; dead the instant Titania thrust her axe down upon his skull. That woman is death on a horse. Simply cutting up her enemies with one stroke. It took me forever to kill a _couple of fools_ You think you can disobey me! and raised his hand up again _support Ike, his head bent down; completely past out and _I cried_ Can you be more gentle, Father? Can you be nice to Ike? He worked hard_ in the corner. Ike was passed out, his body stretched across the floor, and Father kept looking at him,_ breathing heavily. _Man, I wish I could be like Titania some day. Or be like the commander where I can just glare at my enemies and they'll drop dead. Wouldn't that be great, right Mist? Mist?"

"Hm?" I said. Throughout the entire story I was looking at my shadow, its size augmented so much that it reached Ike's heels, my shadow fading into the emerging darkness. "Yeah, I heard you. I don't know, I guess it'll be nice to be strong and not having any one to intimidate you."

"Yeah, what a great feeling that would be. I have a long road ahead for me to be at the same level of awesomeness that Titania and your Father are at." He paused. "Sometimes, I feel like they're meant to be together. I get that vibe every time, don't you agree? I can't understand why they don't just hook up. They're perfect for each other, right? I mean, didn't they spend months in Gallia together?"

I didn't respond. Boyd ceased talking, not sure whether he said was offensive or not.

Sounds slowly subsided; the sun faded with it. The birds and the bugs that hummed and sang all afternoon vanished, and left the stage for the night critters to perform: a fragmented song of shocks and surprises with a chorus of soft chirping crickets in the background. The line of apple trees disappeared one by one from the side of the road and merged into heaven trees. Beyond those trees, sloping into a smooth curve, the path and trees ended, and there, on top of a hill, through a field of tall grass swaying in the evening wind, was the fort, rarely visible in the fading light.


	4. P: Boyd

**BOYD**

The fort and its surroundings gradually grew dark, a fading blue remained, guiding our path. Gatrie was at guard in front of the entrance, his blue armor blended in the dying twilight, a dull shine outlined his large frame, his face indistinguishable in the approaching dusk. To him we appeared like moving black figures, but he identified us and yelled over his shoulder: "They've returned!"

Somewhere in the fort, movements stirred, the rattling of someone's armor filled the evening air, soft but increasing, coming from behind Gatrie. Titania's figure came into view, still dressed in her armor, hands on her waist, and stood by Gatrie. Her face too was blurred, but her white armor, radiant without much light, and her scarlet hair, still tied into one long braid, its length past her waist, distinguished her.

We reached the entrance. "Took you long enough. Here I was thinking that the four of you were dead," Titania said.

"Good to see you, Titania," said the commander.

"Good to see you too, Greil. How was your training session with Ike?"

He smiled and turned to him. "Excellent. The boy is approving every day. In a matter of time, he might finally lay a scratch on me." Titania laughed. Ike returned his look and nodded with a small jerk, determination in his eyes. His hair disheveled, part of it bristling, he stood straight, his clothes crumpled and smeared with dirt.

Humph. Standing there like he's all that. Don't hunch, Ike! You'll ruin your figure! We all know that your goal in life is to be the incarnation of masculinity: no faults, all perfection. The perfect man? Yeah, right. A man. A man my ass. A silly boy who acs like a man. Standing on his toes to seem like he's tall. Sure you can beat anyone. Anyone that's inexperience. But you can't beat your own dad. But who can? Nobody can. That man knows every technique in fighting there is too know. Rhys told me that the Goddess is the paragon of perfection. If Ashera's perfect and so is the commander, then the commander is God.

"Yeah, and Ike is going to be-" I started suddenly, but Mist cut in, sensing what I was going to say, and said in a louder tone than mine: "Father hit Ike pretty hard on the back of his head today."

"Shush!"

Too harsh for your ego, Ike?

"I stayed with Father at the lake looking over him, just in case nothing serious happened."

"Well, that explains what happened to you and why Ike looks like he slept in a ditch," said Titania, smiling. "Did Boyd find you or was it the other way around?"

"Yes ma'am, just a few minutes after you appointed me the rescue mission, I found them at the spot where Ike usually trains," I said.

"You weren't rescuing them, Boyd. Nor was it a mission," said Titania. "But at least you accomplished your assignment. Lately, you're been slacking off, sleeping in the horses' hay during training hours."

"I know, ma'am," I replied. I paused for a couple seconds, thinking of an excuse. "I've been having dizzy spells recently, and resting helps me recover my strength."

Titania rolled her eyes, still smiling. "Boyd, Boyd," she said under her breath.

"Well, let's talk inside. Oscar should be almost done preparing dinner, and I haven't eaten since this morning," the commander said.

We started moving. Mist grabbed my arm, pulled me down to her height, and whispered: "Don't tell anyone just yet."

"Why?" I whispered back, lowering my axe, its tip almost touching the ground.

"I think Father wants to keep everyone from knowing that Ike has been accepted into the company."

"How do you know?"

"It's a feeling. But just be quiet about it, will you?"

"Understood." With that said, she let go of my arm and walked over to Ike.

A saint. Born from purity, during the zenith of spring with the sun high hovering and looking down on the scene, balanced in an open meadow, Mist was born, not a single sin latched on her; the horrors of child labor, agonizing and harsh, were not there, not a single drop of sweat or a strand of hair loose, vanished: one push and there she was. Childlike angels parted the clouds and descended from the heavens with bands of purple ribbon, stretching it out, east to west, perfectly symmetrical and right above her, her mother, and her father. Her mother cradled her close to her bosom and the commander, kneeling, massaged his lover's shoulders and gazed at this magnificent creature, his creation, a conception from two human souls combining to make flesh and blood of the highest degree, common in blood but royal in beauty. Ike was not in the picture, not in the background, not in the corner. Since his birth, he was probably training, deep in the heart of the woods.

I see what Mist truly is but nobody else can't. I told Oscar, and he said I'm in love. You think so? I asked. If you spent all that time constructing Mist's birth, then yes, he replied. Am I? Every time being around her, fretted and muscles twitching, I lose control of myself. I touch myself. Not like that! It's a thing of mine. I have to touch my hair, my arms, my face. I don't know how to act in front of her. Or in front of other girls. I'm comfortable talking to men, but with women, my speech slurs and impales to the ground. Embarrassment is too overpowering.

Jokes? Humor? Does girls like that? Does she like that? I never asked her. What about muscles? When I go to town with Gatrie and Shinon, I see the town girls, slim, covered in ragged clothes, voluptuous, walking and taking a glance at me, grinning. I don't know how to act. I blush. Brown to red to pink to ivory. I get scared and my words are in the ground. Shinon told me the bigger the muscles a man has, the more likely a girl wants him. It shows him that he has confidence and dominance, he said. You don't have big muscles, Shinon. Well, here's the funny thing, Boyd: I don't have to have big muscles. Basically, I don't have to do anything. I could just simply sit here, and the bitches will still come to me, insane with heat, practically begging at my feet.

But training's hard. I can't train like Ike. That's why I get my ass handed to me when I fight him. With skills not fully matured, I train mostly in the afternoon and during missions where I look for weak enemies to kill. I need sleep, food, and rest. I appear slothful, but I can't take the stress. A man has his faults, but what makes him a man is recognizing them and agreeing with himself. Like Ike. Not Ike. Don't be mad, he only beat you because he trains all day, every day, Mist told me. My brother. Her brother. She cradles him like a man fallen from grace. I've fallen multiple times, too! On my ass. And I? Where's my cradling? Instead, I get laughed at. And she just walks over there and stands next to her boorish brother like he too was born a saint.

I'm not mad. I never get mad. I'm not jealous either. I like Ike. I don't hate him. I don't. But he hasn't recognized his flaws. He doesn't get mad and keeps everything bottled up inside him. I like that. But open up and admit it already! Equivocal emotions. Luring into believing that I...? No. No. Not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.

"Coming to eat, Gatrie?" asked the commander as we past him.

"No sir, I'll wait until Shinon returns. Until then, I'll stay at guard."

"Suit yourself."

We moved deeper inside the dark compound. I lagged behind, my axe down to my heels, swaying when I walked. Deep inside the main house a weak orange light glowed out from the windows, as if the fort's life was slowly dying. We continued our way to the house, and under the stone archway, curved in an oval shape, the front door swung open and Rolf came out, running towards us. "Mist! There you are! I was so worry! I thought something had happened to you."

She giggled. "Why should anything happen to me? Here," handing the white flowers to Rolf, "I got these for you."

Dammit. I hoped she was going to give them to me in private.

Rolf eyes grew big, like Mist gave him candy, and looked down at them, his mouth gaped. "They're beautiful." He took them and smelled them, his baby face nearly covered by the flowers.

Mist smiled at the sight, I didn't, and Ike went inside.

Rolf moved the flowers away from his face. "Come on, Mist! I'm starved," he said and grabbed Mist's hand, leading her inside. Her brown hair, down to her shoulders, waved gently as she entered into the house. Only Titania, the commander, and I remained. They stood close together with the stone archway right above them, while I stood near the door, staring inside.

"Adorable," said the commander.

"I know. Seeing the two of them together..." she paused abruptly, "...fills my heart-with joy." she said, the final words faded gradually, almost a whisper.

"Boyd, are you going to eat?" asked the commander.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, let me put away my axe." I went down to the armory at the corner of the fort. On my way, I turned around and saw Greil leaned towards Titania, who seemed lost and stared blankly at the house, and whispered in her ear. She stiffened. He moved away. Titania turned and looked at him, petrified.

I stopped in my tracks. Incomplete thoughts filled my mind.

Did he-? Is she-? But I-?

They slowly entered into the house; Greil first followed by Titania.


	5. P: Titania

**TITANIA**

_Raising _and falling_._ Quiet murmuring rose and fell throughout the fort like movements of the torchlight when a small gust passed it. Sounds: from the dining hall, slithered on the ground and raised slightly in amplitude when a plate or a cup or a utensil made contact on the tables' surfaces, then receded back to the stone floor, slithering.

When Greil and I entered into the fort, it was like walking into a void, a stronghold of man's darkest secrets, lit by flames of passion. One step in and I knew. A sudden shock passed through my body: awareness. It swelled inside me but couldn't persuade me to listen. Thoughts _of the days where life flowed blindly rightwards like a river apathy in its veins and thoughtless decisions in its cruising _Something's wrong_ the epiphany kicks in the sudden realization when heaven's lighting dispatched from Ashera's mind comes down and strikes you _I knew but I didn't _Existence becomes personified among the walking but for a long time I thought I was the only one who saw it When I met him_ Darkness resided and gathered at cracks and corners, far from light's embrace. It clasped onto me, my shadow following suit. Their weight was heavy on my back.

Hampered by the overflowing blackness, packed tightly within the halls' dimensions, spouting endlessly through the cracks, Time's flow impeded. Within, Greil struggled; slowed down and impossibly unaware. He seemed to limp, with every step his wooden sword drooped down in a J-shape, almost touching the floor, and then rotated back and the process repeated again.

We passed the dining hall, first and only door to the right, in the left hall on the ground level. Double doors opened to a medium sized room where two long rows of benches and tables, both made from oak, lined against the wall, perpendicular but parallel to each other; visible only by thick candles, two placed symmetrically on each table, a small corona formed around the flames, dancing sluggishly in the air.

Turning: slow; a turn for a quick glance inside, protracted. The kids were cluttered at the table in the upper right corner, empty plates in front of them, and they too were under the spell. They were hardly moving, almost motionless, like posing for a painting; lips moving somnolently, conversations hardly recognizable. Rolf and Mist, their backs facing me, talked to one another, but their words dispersed when spoken, forming into soft, incomprehensible sounds. Ike and Boyd faced them. One of the thick candles was placed in front of them, between them, separating them. Faces bright in its dull light, their shadows towered behind them, exaggerated and staring down on them.

Did they know? I wanted to shout but the room was slowly being thrown out of reality by a wall. Greil _my leader my language my life _A last glimpse inside but _Sin is a ghost moving solemnly behind people invisible to their naked eye But it's there attached and growing and _They didn't speak nor did they look at anyone or anything. Looking for something to look at _in the abyss life stares back at you_ Sounds, from children: the only resonant source throughout the fort.

I turned back. We continued down the hall, lit by torches, proportionally spaced and glowing with a dull orange flare, dripped and trickled down the wall, with gothic-like windows leftward - walls connected them. Greil seemed to glide, growing out of his limping and hovered above the ground, his cape rustling under his movements, and I pursued _that the moment would come that the moment would come after many revolutions of Ides from then till now In the Sea of Trees lost in emotions when we separate I look upon the ocean Time is short You take a blink and it's the next day next week next month And without realizing it it's the time where we would have to go back So I look out into the ocean hoping and hoping Saying to myself arms stretched to the ocean saying Please please let me_

How far was the stairway to the second floor? It only took a couple of seconds to get from here to there. One. Two. And there you were. But the hallway stretched and continued with every step. It's right there, but there was no door. No stairway. A black room: enter at your own risk, you might fall into oblivion _a dream of no consistency I was a silly girl next thing I noticed I was a warrior Floating down life _of abrupt jumps: one second I'm here, the other I'm over there. In a blink _so far down that the sunlight couldn't reach the bottom _we're at the doorway. Into oblivion we go, falling upwards. I blinked _so far up light was at the top and it will take two_ entering into another hallway: everything reversed; windows and torches on the opposite side.

Tension increased with every step unbearably. The hallway was no longer straight, but shortened and curved, the torchlight dimmer than usual. The ceiling rose up, giving more space for darkness to accumulate, suspended and looking down at me with unblinking eyes. Nausea swept down, and my muscles and heart were beating at a frenzy rhythm. A thick wooden door leading into Greil's office stood intimidatingly in the middle where the left wall curved in an ovular shape, torches nailed on both sides. Facing it, a window, larger than the rest, opened to the fort's courtyard and beyond that a field _stretched with hills surrounding it in the distance Rippled like stress lines on clothes they sloped up and down like waves at sea And there at the middle of the valley Crimea's castle stood towered and piercing the sky with staggering architecture _He opened the door and we went in. A single candle impaled on a wooden candle stand stood erect on his large desk, shining dimly.

A light in an empty space. There was no reality here _ostensibly not elsewhere _Props on the stage _formula to everything_ papers crumpled and cupped light in them. A large chair with red velvet, faded and worn out, faced away from the light and from us. But it couldn't escape. Caressed by the light, a third of it forced a bright crimson, but farther away into the dark a deep blood red emerged. The dull flame, dancing leisurely in the air _and down it goes Sun in the day lucid and crystal upon a factitious civilization It touches what it can but never thoroughly But Night comes along wrapping Tellius in a blanket of demonic awakenings Crawled from the depths and planting and whispering soft sinister ideas into dreams Mirrored light into dark the scheme grows outward and to the sail _He walked over to his desk, straightened the chair, and sat down _Fallacious A and frivolous B and facetious C these are the creatures that come up when the soil is plowed _Like the sun, he sat, looking away at something beyond, and there was I, standing, closing the door with the handle in a death grip, looking at him like a planet from a distance.

There is no sound in a void, only vibrations, and my heart danced faster and louder, filling my ears with its constant crescendo. He wasn't looking at me. His hands covered his mouth, fingers interlocked, his gaze at the darkness. A chiaroscuro scene. The flame reduced its speed, its flicks now in a waltz. No gradation. The flame's touch painted Greil's face with orange, covering half his face but fell immediately to black.

A second lasted a century, but if that second past, I would die. Words came from across the universe: "You wanted to speak to me in private?"

Pensively trying to look beyond the darkness, he uttered, his voice as soft as the flame's movement: "Yes. It's about Ike."

"Ike?"

"Yes. I gave him the job."

_If there's any hope left in the world let it be here_

"Is that what you wanted to tell me about?"

_Let me play the female role I can act in whatever manner you desire It's already written on paper and ready to be sign with Fate as our witness Only you Greil need to commit and ink your name on the dotted line and then it's done I think everyone would agree that this was meant to be Ike Mist and our comrades there in the crowd would be fine with the decision They should be I wasn't born from a harpy or a whore slithered from their womb and into the world just to be used or misused So pull me from the shadows and onto the front stage Walk with me hands interlocked high above us so the audience can look at us and applaud not to me but to you for your act of virtue But let us stay here on the stage and not go backstage I fear the worst and don't want temptation to sneak in the dressing room_

"Not specifically."

_Say it sign it How obvious can it be The first time I saw you standing in front of the new recruits tall proud and confident was all you needed to tell me_

"I wanted to know: what's your opinion on my decision?"

Then it came back, barging in like a bad joke. Greil turned to look at me, moved back into the faded velvet, and relaxed, hiding his hands underneath the desk. The flame's slow kicks increased, moving rapidly and growing brighter and brighter, bringing reality back. Objects that were lost sneaked back. Bookcases, stacks of documents, from the floor and working its way up, wooden cabinets came closer and closer. A light shone on them, the room becoming clearer and clearer. The ceiling and walls closed in. A confined room, limitless ends with limits. They were here all along. Fragments broken up into molecules drifting around us, took the cue and solidified back into its original form, floating down until everything was in place.

Sound returned. My heart's beating reduced, emptying my ears and going back to its normal rhythm. Vibrations: rumbling like an earthquake evaporated and the sounds from downstairs came into the room. All senses restored, I let go of the handle, moved my hands, felt how free they were.

"Well, I think Ike is well prepared. He's beaten everyone in our company; except for you and me. Plus, he has a style that is completely different from what I've seen me entire life."

"A reckless style."

"Not that reckless. It's as if he was born with it. A prodigy. He's the sole bearer of his skills and techniques. Remember: you're his father. You could've passed your techniques down to him."

"Is that so? If that's the case, why is it that every time I fight the boy, he's as wild as a beast? When I was Ike's age, my skills weren't that impetuous. When I was a boy, there wasn't a day in my life that I didn't train. From the dawn of morning to the dark hours of night, I trained. During breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I trained. "

"So I'm guessing Ike's not putting enough effort?"

"Not effort. Method."

"Method?"

"Method of training. I had a method when I was a boy. If I found something to be off, I worked on it, no matter how long it took. Speed, strength, skill; these are things that can take almost a lifetime to perfect, but it only took a small portion of mine. I was a fast learner and the step by step methods I created catalyzed that."

"Making you into the all-mighty Greil?"

"Well, I don't want to brag."

"And Ike?"

"None whatsoever. No method leads to no style. I've spied on him while he trained by himself. Pathetic. I don't think he knows what he's doing. Or he's cocky. Swinging aimlessly in the air like swatting flies. He thinks that by attacking with heavy blows, he hopes to kill his opponents with one hit. Does he expect his enemies to be that weak?"

"I don't think Boyd is that weak."

"I'm not calling Boyd out. I'm saying that he's going to confront opponents that are going to be well-trained and well-skilled. The real challenges in life."

"You think that by beating you, Ike will achieve that sort of knowledge?"

"Not by beating me. Maybe laying a scratch on me, but dodging all my blows and being quick with strategies on the spot. And it doesn't come as a sort of epiphany. If Ike does beat me in some sort of extraordinary scenario, he won't know right away. It comes little by little. But that boy is nowhere near to finding out what life has in store for him."

"Maybe it's because he's nervous when he fights you. You're his father. Maybe he feels a huge deal of pressure."

"I gave him one mission to prove himself that he's ready."

"Oh?"

"Yes. That boy was at the point of going to do missions by himself."

"We have a mission?"

"Tomorrow in the morning. I've received a letter from Caldea that a group of bandits are planning to raid their town. I want you to take Boyd, Oscar, and Ike with you."

"Well, I don't think that it'll be a daunting task for Ike. He'll do fine."

"I hope so."

"Don't worry, Greil, I'll look after him in the battlefield. Is there anything else?"

"No. That's it."

"If that's it-"

"Are you going to have dinner, Titania?"

"If you're having it."

"No. I'll think I'll pass."

With that said, I opened the door and slipped out, closing it behind me slowly; attention away from the room with eyes closed, ignoring its existence. To look back was to look at the abyss _from the other side of the wind here and back and grabs you by the throat Like I told you tread carefully _And then it came back.

I opened my eyes like one awakening from a dream. Bereft of darkness, the hallway had a brighter tone, dark orange corresponding to bright various tints of the same color. Sparking and spitting, the hum of the flames danced with the songs of the night _flashing before my eyes not life but sights and sounds A mise en scene of meticulous integrity and we are the actors modelers and roamers_ But it still came back. Out of focus, brighter and darker, vice versa, twofold, threefold, and so on. Into the staircase, the door to oblivion out of order, and walked downstairs, hearing the clanking of my armor with each step down.

_I act naturally and put a smile on my face with my armor on most of the time On the surface there's hardly any commotion but ripped the layer and layer of dirt and rock and it's a tumult molten and crashing into everything _When I reached the dining hall, someone called out: "Titania!" _I pull down my mask and continue dancing in the masquerade_

I looked inside the room, bright then dark, dark then bright, ebbing like the tide, wet to dry. Mist waved at me, sitting close to the door with Rolf by her side. Boyd and Ike were gone. But that noise. Clattering and chattering like the inside of a lounge. Coming from these two _candles overlooked him on the headboard at his deathbed for all to see Crowded around the bed his peers and mistresses looked at him some crouched some standing with their heads bent Black was the theme and they whispered among themselves about the good old days with him chanted hymns and said words of gratitude _

"Are you going to eat, Titania?" asked Rolf _what a man they said The paragon of manhood they said_

"Why is it so empty in here? Where are the others?"

"Oscar is still in the kitchen and Ike and Boyd finished their dinner a few minutes ago and left. Didn't you hear Ike going up the stairs?" asked Mist _but I stood by the door watching this hypocrisy_

"No, no I didn't."

"Titania?" asked Rolf _the curtains were drawn and the only light were from those two candles _

"Hm?"

"Are you going to eat?" said Mist this time. Two _discussed about how to bury the body and I wanted to say Burn him Burning purifies the soul Maybe he will go to heaven and his mendacity will go straight to hell but among dunces this was too offensive _taking turns like a game and I have to participate.

"No. I'll turn in for tonight." With that, I left _back into the hole _and they stared back to me _confused _about my strange behavior _to the ground he goes to let the worms of hell break the casket and dig deep into him _but they seen this happened before, but I always reassured them that nothing was wrong _I left the room of fools Down the stairs and through the front door infuriated that_ twilight gone, the fort glowed in the moonlight. Even out here I could hear the noises, laughing and joking, like stories being told with 'Once upon a time...' about the good memories.

Luminous in the black sky, the moon full and centered on the stage with no stars or clouds to steal the show. Shining its glamorous moonlight on everything, it gave an impressionable and hopeful white to life; a diaphanous suit of temporal radiance for deception to dance and waltz with the world. Slowly and slowly it dissolved, my white armor became the moonlight but I didn't dance. Night goes away and takes everything with it, and the sun comes up to reveal the truth.

_A three dimensional world turned into a two dimensional coin Men who run society protect their Heads to stay in the norm and use women as their shields Who wants Tails Filled with scum and filth in and out of it disease thrive where nobody respects you and walk on the other side of the street That's why I go in a circle on the rim deeper and deeper I go _It happened at night, nothing happens at night. The day of wrath on Ashera's wake will come by day and she'll judge your actions in the all-seeing sun _not even the sun can reach me in my hole_ But not at night. Where the moon full of aloofness gloats happily down on its hypnotized victims, drunk on the moonlight, naked before the world, yelling words of blasphemous pride _Anyone can be anything when the kingdom of shadows comes _That's why Ashera is asleep.

Do you think that she'll judge beorc and laguz on what they did under the moon's spell? Looking at each other _beautiful with their armor of shining deceit gleaming in the moonlight Sleep is at night and life is at day Only the priests and priestesses say these things are bad because they ran out of ideas_ _to convince their followers my father would say _

Gatrie was still up at the entrance to the fort. I took the back way.

Down the knoll I went _entering into the castle my first day I have beaten everyone in my path and now here I am in a land of optimism and opportunities _houses surrounded the foot of the knoll where the fort sits_ Spring we went to Gallia where we will meet _My house was far away tucked at the north _But as time grew I reassured myself that my feeling for a man _farther than anyone else, the only house close to mine was Rhys' who _at night it became hard to sleep _reached the bottom it became obvious that the moon found me ungrateful for not enjoying its gift and refused to lead my path _when he told me that he had a wife and two kids _black and lost _In life you're born twice Once through childbirth growing up from infant to adolescence drunk with selfishness The reproduction for society Twice_

I didn't care. The trees that opened their arms happily in the morning and afternoon became spurned, black and grotesque, scaring off anything not to be touched or embraced, for only loneliness was their true core and _the sea was the only prescription and went there every day burrowing deeper and deeper _stalking behind, the clattering of noises followed me, taunting me with its distorted happiness. Lost _nights were like the sea tides up and down _I don't know where I'm going but I do know where I'm going _that I was over thinking it Men are like dogs he said finding one doesn't take too long like going to the store and picking up supplies All you have to do is lead them on and they become an imbecilic slobbering subhuman _Owls high up on branches yawned and looked away _No memory of the days leading up to the transition You'll notice the years that pass but never the transition One moment _raising and lowering my head.

Shadows crawled onto my body. I felt their touch, reaching all the way up to my neck, cupping their hands around it and _spoke among themselves _Rhys' small house came into view and a lighted square _where the multi headed multitudes all born into one large mass of flesh that can't think or function individually _Inside, he knelt to a candle, hands clasped together, his head bowed to_ The revelation of life All those desires awake inside you _in the woods, my head bent to darkness _with nothing to show for my gain_ I walked, too tired to grope my way. An increasing emptiness dragged me down _Woo the day I was born where nothing was told in advance how life will be so cruel It's when it's too late that you realize the truth but you sign the contract that you never signed _

In my house, no recollection of even getting in there.

_At mass love thy neighbor don't covert thy neighbor's spouse love thy parents and so on and so on So much hypocrisy in a small crowded space They give you abstractions but never the answer Figure out yourself Imperfections lie in perfection How can they suspect us to live coincide with laguz when we hate them That's why the coin has two sides they can't stand being together and is forever separated No matter how much you sweep under the rug it will still be there Overt to subtle and they told us to love thy neighbor Down in the depths of the world where the sunlight cannot reach _

Pitch black, I saw the furniture and moved without touching them.

_Looked up and the light was far away no one can climb up the steep walls by themselves Seven is the number that's the ticket to hell but that's not why I'm here Sometimes I wished I was beaten then it will give me more reason to exist but ignored is something else Now everyone loves me but back during the days of foolishness I was among the dead and passed through the crowds without being noticed When I first met him standing in front of the new recruits I knew he was the one And when he fought me and I lost horribly he was the one And when I was assigned to go to Gallia with him he was the one Fate wrote this and it must happen_

I became the ennui, walking with its head down.

_But the big Seven wasn't the reason I looked up and saw how far life was and I cried I thought about my father and my past and I cried Then I thought about Greil and I cried He was the only one and I reached up vividly in my dreams yelling Greil Come down Come down and save me I can't stand it anymore The wailing of the world the laughing of the fools and the moaning of the dead all fill my ears and I just can't stand it any longer Greil If you hear me head my sorrow _

_Behind me the Devil came and I could feel his breath on my neck and he whispered how nice temptation and Sin were and how giving in I would get what I want But I swallowed and said nothing How nice of it to feel his touch on you to smell his scent to taste him I turned to him and yelled Vanish malevolent spirit Your words of temptation will never lure me into lust Your ideal of love is iniquitous and filled with black vile thinking that beroc are primal like animals Damn you and go back to the depths of hell whence you came But I saw in front of my eyes that the devil was a woman rotten scorched flesh stark naked with sagging breasts and a tongue split like a snake rolled down to her chest Black hair messy and long covered most of her face but showed her bright yellow goat eyes staring back at me I closed my eyes and slapped my hands to my face and screamed _

My bed was in front of me. I let out a final breath and collapsed.

_There's a formula to everything No matter what I'll wait and let Fate take the reins In life there's two rivers one that flows right and one that flows left For the moment being I'll remain face up drifting leftwards_


End file.
